


Lost

by Lulzy (likelolwhat)



Series: For the Love of a Meme [12]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 17:19:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2629952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likelolwhat/pseuds/Lulzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dragonborn loses everything: her renown, her war, and now, her life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost

**Author's Note:**

> De-anoning from the skyrimkinkmeme, [this prompt](http://skyrimkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4941.html?thread=10327629#t10327629).

She should have known.

She should have known revealing herself, the Dragonborn, as a Stormcloak supporter was a bad idea.

She should have known the Empire would run a campaign against her, saying she was a criminal, a cannibal, a Thalmor plant.

She should have known the propaganda, tailored to distort her record, would sway many former neutrals and even allies against her, from fear of it being the truth.

She should have known the tide would turn against her, against the man who accepted _her_ into his army, against the cause she had taken into her heart since first arriving in Skyrim to the beating of war-drums.

She should have known they'd be beaten back, inch by inch, mile by mile, Hold by Hold until all the remainder of Ulfric's supporters could do was wait: wait inside the Palace of the Kings, the house of the rulers of Skyrim so long ago, for the army at Windhelm's doorstep to come a-knocking.

She should have known.

It was all over. Just the formalities were left: the sword coming down and lifeblood seeping out onto the cold stone. She wouldn't even be a martyr for anyone, not anymore. She had done her destiny, and now her usefulness had ended.

It was good while it lasted.

Her chosen King was slumped in his ancestral throne, praying feverishly. For Skyrim, for his people. For himself. His generals — those who remained — were arrayed around him, somehow managing to hover and keep a respectful distance at the same time. The deposed Jarls and their entourages sat silently at the table, staring at the days-old feast laid out before them.

It was even colder than usual in the Palace; the fire in the kitchens had burnt out the day before. Sifnar was gone: the poor man had been worked even harder than usual as the exiled Jarls came in and had finally quit, leaving only a note and taking most of the food.

The guards were gone from the entrance hall — why beat yourself against the wall of the inevitable? — and she stood there instead, in the shadows between the doors, looking on.

Waiting for her death.

She leaned back against the wall, letting the ice-cold stone against the points of her ears ground her in the Now. Y'ffre taught Her children, the Bosmer, the virtue of life in the Now, and it made sense to her that, at the end of her life, she would return to her first lessons as a tiny elfling. The Now, the Now. She awaited returning to the earth, and only regretted there were none of her fellow Bosmer here to preform the necessary ceremonies at her life's end.

...the Now...

The stone is cold, the tiny hairs on her arms standing up in a feeble attempt to warm her.

Outside, the tramp of boots on stone.

Across the way, Ulfric sits and prays, his generals and steward shifting nervously around him.

Outside, the clanking of an army.

The smell of slow-rotting food wafts on frigid air towards her.

On either side of her, the doors slam open.

She bites her tongue; the taste of blood fills her mouth.

A wordless shout, the _shhh-shick_ of a sword being drawn, and—

Pain blossoms in her chest, the Earth-Bones lurch beneath her, and her Now is over.


End file.
